


IMMUNE: A Tale of Year Zero

by LooNEY_DAC



Series: LooNEY_DAC's SSSS Backstory Thingies [4]
Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-09-15 16:46:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9245867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LooNEY_DAC/pseuds/LooNEY_DAC





	1. Coming Attractions Trailer

_[ominous music plays]_

ANNOUNCER: At the end of the Old World...

_[An Old World CRUISE SHIP peacefully sails the OCEAN]_

ANNOUNCER: ...and the beginning of the New...

RADIO: “...confirmed that _two_ of the original patients did die earlier today.”

ANNOUNCER: One boy must fight...

_[BOY runs across storm-swept DECK]_

ANNOUNCER: ...the elements...

_[Stock footage of raging storm at sea]_

ANNOUNCER: ...the others...

_[TERRIFIED WOMAN points machete at BOY]_

ANNOUNCER: ...and himself

_[Close-up of BOY, his face despairing]_

ANNOUNCER: Not for his own survival...

BOY: Wait!

ANNOUNCER: ...but to save his father.

_[One-shot of MAN IN WHEELCHAIR in SHIP’S CABIN]_

BOY _[in alarm from offscreen]_ : Papa!

ANNOUNCER: Of every ten...

_[Montage of CAST headshots]_

ANNOUNCER: Eight will die...

_[Long shot of covered BODIES in SHIP’S MORGUE]_

ANNOUNCER: One will turn to monster...

_[Blurred shot of swiftly-moving TROLL]_

ANNOUNCER: And one...

_[Close-up of BOY, looking worried]_

ANNOUNCER: ...will be...

_[Brief shot from fight scene]_

ANNOUNCER: IMMUNE

 _[Title Card]_  
Mora Radio Presents  
Ulf Västerström  
...and Ulf Västerström (fils)  
in  
IMMUNE: A Tale of Year Zero  
Based on a True Story  
 _[End Title Card]_

ANNOUNCER: Coming Soon...


	2. Men of a Thousand Voices

“Our world is built upon a mountain of anguish. Once you stir it up, who can tell what you will find?”

Little Ulf fidgeted as he watched his father, Ulf Mikkel, practicing his lines. His father was a perfectionist, and his fellows both hated and respected him for it. He might scream at them, but he was even more demanding of himself.

“Come here, boy. We need to do another read-through.” Some of the father’s frustration with himself leaked into the curt command.

“Yes, Father,” Little Ulf replied dutifully. He walked over to his father, took the proffered script, and got into position for the scene.

“How can we know who we are if we don’t know where we came from?” The question came out in the I’m-trying-to-be-reasonable tones of a boy attempting to be older than his years. No whine, this, but a cool and calm inquiry.

“What is it you want of me, boy?” The elder removed his glasses and gave the youngster an intense stare.

Unflinching, the boy pressed his desire home. “I want to know about the Old World, from before the Illness--I want to know what we lost.”

“Everything.” After that one bitter word, there was a pause before the elder continued. “The Illness took everything from us, except each other.

“You want to know who we are?

“We are survivors.

“We are _family_.

“We are--IMMUNE.”

There was another long pause while the two stared at each other in a silent test of wills. At last, the elder said, “Our world is built upon a mountain of anguish. Once you stir it up, who can tell what you will find?

“Are you _sure_ you want to do this?”

The boy’s voice never once wavered in his reply. “I _need_ to know where we came from.

“I need to know the truth.”

“And CUT!”

At the director’s cry, the assembled crew burst into spontaneous applause. Just this first take of the scene which would open every episode of the mini-series had thoroughly demonstrated the mastery of the elder Västerström and the raw talent of the younger in their common craft.

“Should we go again?” Ulf Mikkel asked the beaming director. “I think we can do it better.”

“I don’t,” the director replied. “Are we ready for the next scene?”

“I won’t be ready until _I_ think we can’t do this scene better.”

“Then you’ll never be ready,” the director replied. “Get into your place for the next scene. Everyone else, places and READY!”

For a moment, Ulf Mikkel looked like he wanted to object, but the director was determined to be the mistress of her set. The crew-members got into their prescribed spots and prepared for the next take...


	3. A Tale of a Fateful Trip

_“Our world is built upon a mountain of anguish. Once you stir it up, who can tell what you will find?”_

Norwegian Cruise Lines cruise ship _Norwegian Epic_  
Crew: 1724  
Passengers: 3172  
Days at sea: 9

The ‘Economy’ cabin was rather small, but being a ‘Disabled’ cabin helped a bit. They had managed to get the inside cabin at a reduced rate because people had grown increasingly superstitious over the last week or so, and no one wanted a berth on Deck 13.

The boy’s brow was furrowed as he read the English text aloud to the wheelchair-bound blind man beside him. “‘...I am Dickory Dock.’” Switching to their native tongue of Swedish, the boy opined to his father, “I don’t get it.”

“‘Who is “Dick Ory”?’” his father quoted in English.

“I still don’t get it.”

The man sighed. “Dickory Dock has been mocked for her name for so long that before the book even began, she was running away from it, and from the past that made Garson describe her as ‘haunted’. Now, in the final few paragraphs of the story, she’s embracing the name, even eager for Isaac Bickerstaffe to mock it, because it will make him happy.”

“Oh.”

The man let his son think on that silently for a bit before continuing, “Now, I’ll ask you the question Dickory asked herself earlier on: ‘What one word describes Garson?’”

The boy essayed a few answers, each capturing part of the complex character described in the book, but never quite epitomizing the artist.

Finally, the man told his son, “Not bad, but not quite right. It’s interesting that Dickory couldn’t quite think of it either, because it’s the same word that he chose to epitomize her: ‘haunted’.”

“Ohhhhhhhhhh,” the boy breathed in sudden understanding.

“Precisely. Garson is haunted by what his past actions wrought, and running away from his past as surely as Dickory was up until the end.” The man paused. “Do you remember ‘The Minister’s Black Veil’?” At his son’s soft affirmative, he continued, “That story and this book share many themes, primarily that we humans almost constantly use lies as masks and shields in order to hide away who we really are, but this book makes the point that the past will always come back in the end, no matter how adroit your lies. Thus, you should be who you are rather than who you think others want you to be, as shown by Julius Panzpresser and his Cookie.”

A sudden lurch as the storm outside battered the ship brought them back to the real world. Setting the book aside, the boy told his father, “I’ll go see if I can get us some food.”

“Hurry back, please,” his father said, putting his headphones on and starting his MP3 player.

They had been refused entry at the port of Granada, and every other port thereafter. This would have been less of a problem at the beginning of the cruise; however, Granada was the penultimate port of call, near the end of the cruise, and the provender would soon run thin.

Passengers and crew alike had reason to thank the captain’s foresight in taking aboard as much food and water as his ship would hold for this final run, but the victualing crisis was secondary in their minds to far worse tidings: the Rash was aboard.

It had only been three days now since Iceland had decided to close their borders, but even less paranoid nations wouldn’t accept a boatload of Rash cases in one of their ports. The captain had therefore decided to try to reach Norway, reasoning that their home port couldn’t refuse them. Whether he was right remained to be seen...


	4. Based on a True Story?

Little Ulf frowned at his copy of the script.

He didn’t mean to catch Ulf Mikkel’s attention, but the older man didn’t miss much. “What’s wrong, Son?”

“It’s just...” Little Ulf bit his lip before continuing, “I know it’s ‘Based on’ a true story, but Olaf Wit didn’t write the Sven Silverhair books until Year 47.”

Ulf Mikkel sighed. “Yes, I know. The problem the script-writers have is two-fold: firstly, until your grandfather and his comrades brought back their hauls from Silent Denmark, there were very few copies of _any_ Old World books at all. Even now, there are no remaining copies of the book the boy mentioned in his diary, so we don’t really know what was in it and what they discussed about it. Secondly, even if we did know, only a few Old Time experts would know what the discussion was about, so by using a book most everyone is familiar with, we can give the scene its due.”

Little Ulf sighed unhappily. “This tale makes me understand the Danes a bit more--we have all lost so much.”

“And so we must fill that void,” his father said. “We can only hope our inventions aren’t too far off the mark.”

Little Ulf snorted. “Tales of the wonders the Old-Worlders could work are more fanciful than Grandfather’s stories of what a Finn Mage can do when pressed. I mean, things that knew to a millimeter where you were and fit in your palm? Things that could let you speak any language you pleased, or that held the sum of all that had ever been known? Anything we conceive could hardly be enough off the mark as to strain credulity like that!”

Ulf Mikkel snorted even as he gently batted his son’s ear. “Any more of that,” he said as sternly as he could, “and I’ll make you repeat it to your grandfather verbatim.” Then he laughed outright at Little Ulf’s look of horror.

The director yelled for them then, and father and son went about their work.

*

The fire crackled merrily in the fireplace, the light it gave giving the room a cheery glow in stark contrast to the cold, snowy darkness that lurked outside. The snow would keep the grosslings at bay, but Mankind would never learn to like the darkness.

The elder adjusted his glasses before carefully raising the ancient and well-worn book into position. At his feet, the youngster fidgeted impatiently as the elder cleared his throat a few times.

“There’s really nothing of any importance for many days after the entry where he notes the Captain’s decision to make for Norway.”

“Read it anyway,” the youngster urged.

“Oh, very well...”

*  
 _“Our world is built upon a mountain of anguish. Once you stir it up, who can tell what you will find?”_

Days at sea: 14

The storm had broken all across Europe’s Atlantic coasts at once. It was an extension of the storms that had been battering the North for weeks now, but the few meteorologists left on duty hadn’t anticipated just how fearsome it would remain as it swept southwards.

More and more of the passengers and crew were showing signs that they’d been infected, and a few had already begun to die. As yet, there had been no overt panic, but the Captain, though infected himself, was grimly determined that it would not break out as long as he lived.

It was a most ironic thing that, as more of their fellows fell ill, the food situation improved for those (as yet) un-afflicted. The boy and his father were among these, of course, as they more or less had had Deck 13 to themselves. They had also brought along special hypo-allergenic filters for the vents, as the boy was allergic to certain foods and fragrances.

Nevertheless, the boy perforce was the one who had to run up and down the length of the ship to get things for his blind father, so the boy always wore his face mask and carried an epi-pen, just to be sure. Anaphylactic shock was nothing to sneeze at.

It was on one of these runs that the boy made the fateful discovery that they were off course...


	5. Deeper Into the Storm

_“Our world is built upon a mountain of anguish. Once you stir it up, who can tell what you will find?”_

Days at sea: 17

The Medical Center on Deck 10 had quickly expanded to cover the entire deck as more and more passengers and crew fell ill. On the whole, it had been done smartly and well, given that they had never expected an epidemic of this magnitude, but it was straining at the seams.

Another problematic thing was that all the elevators had been programed to go directly to Deck 10 and stop there, and would not leave without an operator’s authorization, and the only stairwell that weren’t blocked were the emergency ones, and so would set off alarms if used. Thus, every time the boy went out for food, he had to run the gauntlet of the Triage Points set up by the banks of elevators before proceeding below.

The boy wasn’t sure how many “healthy” people were left on the ship; the number was certainly in the hundreds, but on a ship meant to carry thousands, they would have been hard to spot even if most weren’t trying to avoid anyone who might infect them. He wasn’t sure why _he_ was still healthy, mask or no mask, given how often he’d been passed through the Triage Points.

He wasn’t sure he _wanted_ to know how many people on the ship had already died.

At any rate, despite everything, the storm was only getting worse; it was even beginning to affect the ship, each slow lurch or sudden jolt reminding the boy of old WWII footage of carriers with their decks awash in North Atlantic storms. He was very fortunate not to suffer from sea-sickness even through the worst of it.

*

“Wait… How did he find out they were off course? And why isn’t he mentioning it?” The youngster’s face was puzzled.

For a moment, the elder wanted to grin at the youngster’s expression, but it was a serious question which deserved a serious answer, so he was serious when he replied, “Probably for the same reason he didn’t want to believe that the Illness would be so severe as it turned out to be: people usually don’t want to consider the possibility of disaster when they have a problem. They say _Oh, that’ll work itself out_ or _Don’t go borrowing trouble_ when they’re made to face such things, even now, so it’s no surprise that this was how the people of Year Zero dealt with the catastrophe as it unfolded, until they could ignore it no more.” The elder wiggled the book suggestively. “Shall I continue?”

The youngster was about to reply when his stomach rumbled quite loudly. The elder laughed openly and said, “Well, there’s at least _one_ vote in favor of adjourning for supper. Shall we see whether the stew has simmered long enough?”

*

Little Ulf didn’t want to look at anyone for the rest of the day. Finally, Ulf Mikkel forced the matter by grabbing his son’s chin and gently but firmly tugging his head up until Little Ulf was forced to meet his eyes.

Before Ulf Mikkel could say anything, Little Ulf blurted out, “I’m sorry, alright?” and jerked his head away.

“You think this is the first time this has happened in my career?” Little Ulf’s head rose at the question. “You think I haven’t, er, _disrupted_ a take or two of my own? Usually, the disruptive noise is not nearly so polite as yours; in fact, yours was on the order of a ‘happy accident’, rather than anything disastrous.”

Little Ulf stammered and stuttered incoherently for a bit at this unexpected leniency, until Ulf Mikkel frowned.

“Of course, if I catch you eating cabbage before a big scene, you’ll regret it!”

Little Ulf laughed, and the Glurgle Incident was behind them…


End file.
